Of Scotch and Sideways Glances
by jonasnightingale
Summary: For all my Barson-y drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

She finds him at a Tony's, a stool pulled up to the bar counter and a large glass of scotch before him. He probably doesn't want her here, but she'd heard about the "slamming bod, I think she's the mayors wife" who had apparently dropped by the ADA's office today and thought maybe he could use a friend. She takes a seat next to him, ordering her cabernet. He looks at her with a little tilt to his head and unsteady eyes. "How did you know?"

"I'm a trained detective, Councillor."

"Rafael. Tonight, tonight I am not a Councillor."

"Rafael, you're always a Councillor. It's as much a part of you as cop is a part of me."

" _Please_ , Liv. Not tonight." And she listens, drops it and sits in silence, sipping her wine as he motions for another glass.

She doesn't comment when he leans slightly towards her, body weight slumping against her should for the briefest of moments. He slows his drinking, cradling the glass and staring into its amber liquid. He knows he should say something, anything, assure her he's okay. But he's not so sure he is.

"She said some things today. And I know it shouldn't still matter… but it does. I see Alex and Yelena, and it's like that day all over again. First year at Harvard and I come home to el barrio as a surprise; find the two of them, holding hands at lunch with my mother. ' _Oh but Rafi, you never wanted kids',_ "

She would laugh at his high pitched imitation of a female voice if his eyes didn't look so haunted.

"She knew what I grew up with, she should understand."

And that's it, that's the moment, she gets it. Because everyone has ghosts and scars and maybe _el tiburón_ is actually just a little boy who wanted to make the world better.

Her hand is around his without thinking, and his eyes snap to hers searchingly.

"Rafael, you deserve better." His lips quirk in that half smile ["what are you going to be doing when you're 85?" "Squabbling with you?" "Wouldn't that be nice."] and his hand flips to squeeze hers.

"So do you."


	2. Chapter 2

Melinda has trouble in her eyes as she hands Olivia a refill. "Is he gay?"

"Excuse me?"

"The ADA. Surely not. Ever thought about it?" Olivia knows that smile, she recognizes the twinkle in her friends eye. _Stick to the facts_ , she thinks.

"All his exes I have heard about have been female."

"Oh." And at this point Olivia can see Melinda trying to contain her cat-ate-the-canary grin. "So you've talked about previous lovers then?"

"Melinda."

The warning tone does nothing to dampen the mood of the ME who simply takes a sip from her cup with a loaded "hmm".

A few more drinks in and the topics back again, this time with a slightly giggly Rollins joining in. Her accent is thick with alcohol and Liv is glad to see her so carefree, but if Amanda keeps saying things like this the Sergeant wonders how she'll ever work with Barba again. "But just imagine, he'd have some quirks, surely. Look at him, he's dominant, he's cocky… There's gotta be something. Not saying it wouldn't be good, because it _would_ , but he'd keep his damn suspenders on or something."

She's talking to him later, struggling to keep her thoughts clean. Because sure it's been a while, but this is _Barba_. And his smile is bright and wide and doing strange things to her heart. Melinda's words keep rebounding in her head as she watches the Cuban throw his head back with a laugh. ["Melinda, you're happily married!" "I am. But you're not."]

And if the next day Amanda throws her a wink as Olivia's gaze lingers a moment too long, well, Barba doesn't notice.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been 43 hours since the first shot rung out. 35 hours since the pattern was established. 29 hours since he awkwardly lifted Noah from his mothers arms and nodded.

They've barricaded themselves into the inner-most meeting room, impromptu bed set to the side, and he's somewhat proud of himself for the smile that lives on the little boys face. He never thought he'd be good with children, had never had the opportunity to find out; and yet here he is, entrusted with the life of a little boy who he's fallen a little in love with over the course of a day. There's mushed sweet potato on his shirt and his tie has long been discarded on the pile of toys; and all he can think is that his _abuela_ would smile if she could see him right now.

There was a time, back before _el tiburón,_ when he was just Rafi, that he had imagined this kind of life – singing Spanish nursery rhythms, building sand castles on the beach… But Yelena chose another man and the little _nino_ from _el barrio_ traded in his dreams for ambition.

Noah has fallen asleep on his chest, one hand wrapped around his suspenders with a content little snore. Barba is just so tired, eyes sore and stomach tight with anxiety. It's dark save for the desk lamp and no one has updated him since midday. He's made a point to leave the TV off, not needing the news coverage working him up even more. He'd tried checking the news on his phone but cringed away from the headlines, pulse racing: _NYPD TARGET OF VICIOUS SNIPER. DETECTIVES FAMILY MASSACRED IN PARK. SIX POLICE DEAD AS ATTACKS CONTINUE._ All he can do is hold the little boy close and pray that his squad comes through unharmed.

He jumps as the door opens - instinctively spinning his body to shield Noah - before he recognises the silhouette and lets out a relieved sigh of her name. Without thinking, his feet lead him right up to her, bodies too close as he rests his head against hers and closes his eyes.

She hasn't sleep in two days, she's seen officers gunned down, families torn apart; and yet she surprises herself with a little smile as her eyes set on the boys. Barba looks exhausted and on-edge, but her son is asleep on his hip and it feels like a puzzle piece sliding into place. So when he sags against her she brings her hands up, one on her sons back and the other sliding up and down the ADA's arm. His voice cracks as he mutters a quiet "God, Liv, I was so worried."


	4. Chapter 4

He hides his battle scars well, buries them behind raised eyebrows and sharp retorts. Some days it's hard to imagine that this impeccably dressed man could possibly belong to any other world; that there was a time when he smiled with reckless abandon, a time when his future was filled with loud children and not the silence of murdered ones.

Then there's the other days, the times she catches the ghosts dancing in his eyes, when his hand curls into a fist whilst watching abusive fathers deny their fault, when his eyes flick to Yelena and Alejandro on television and he folds in upon himself. And she thinks that maybe this job will not break him as it has so many before him; that they've simply taken a fighter and put him in a new ring.

She watches him around her son, the confident lawyer giving way to this awkward uncomfortable man with a nervous smile and terrified eyes. Sees him second guess every instance of physical contact, revels at the shaky hands running anxiously through the once neat hair. But each visit he grows more and more secure in their home, now content to ruffle the boys hair or return his uncoordinated hug. And she knows why – had overheard his secretary talking about the parenting books that had been delivered to the office – but she bites her tongue and watches them with a secret grin. That was how Rafael worked best, within strict guidelines, where he knew the rules, knew what was expected and what boundaries could be pushed.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise then when he snaps away from their friendship, walls suddenly thrown back up. She should have known better, should have anticipated the ramifications, but it had been a long week. Her eyes were heavy, her brain sluggish, and his arm beside hers just so warm. Noah was asleep on his lap and she instinctively curled towards them as their conversation lulled, head falling against his shoulder. He wasn't there when she woke.

It cuts deeper than she'd dare admit – the blanket wrapped around her; the note in his scrawl saying Noah was tucked into bed, he'd see her at work; the glasses drying on the sink rack – but he didn't stay. And at work the next day he just offers up a shuttered smile before delving into the case. She lets him shove them neatly back into a box he can safely categorise, because who is she to ask for anything more.

She's healing but she's fractured and she can't take him back there with her. All the nights she wakes breathless, ready to pounce for her gun and ward off men long dead; all the times she looks at her body in the mirror and turns away in shame – he can never know. There's a look in his eye every time she cringes away from the sounds of the beach, or jumps at a mystery hand upon her, and she wishes it wasn't guilt she sees there, but it eats at her in the fraction of a moment before he schools his features.

So she lets him stand a little further away, and pretends to not notice when their meetings over take-away and Noah's toys revert back to coffee at his office.


	5. Chapter 5

He bites back a smile over the rim of his glass as he catches her chewing her lip. It's a trait he rarely gets to see, a habit stuffed beneath years of training and experience. _She's nervous_ , he realises with a start. It fills him with both dread and excitement, but more than anything, he's curious. There are few people who have the capacity to surprise him, to blind-sight him; she is one of them.

So he takes a deep sigh, "Liv, what's up?" She looks embarrassed for a moment, her eyes darting between the tie hanging loose around his neck and his eyes for a split second before jutting away.

"I don't mean to pry."

"…But…"

"You might want to be more careful with the tie selection." His eyebrow quirks, hand instinctively going to the silk. To be entirely honest, he's quite offended by the criticism. The tie is nice, not a favourite, but a Christmas present from last years office Secret Santa – it's a deep purple with pinpricks of white across it, and he thought it suited him rather well. "You keep showing up in the same outfits and the rumour-mill will go into a frenzy." He's officially confused as his mind tries to spin some explanation for this absurd conversation he's found his way in to. She looks at his furrowed brow and picks her fingers up to trace the pattern of the tie, "Councillor, Carisi wore this tie yesterday." His confusion increases tenfold and he's about to mutter a "how the hell did Casiri get my tie?" before he notices the awkward hesitance on her face and _OH._

How on earth did this happen? He's not even sure how to explain exactly how wrong she is. Did that mean everyone in the office thought…? She reads the panic that flits across his face and immediately tries back-peddling. "Don't get me wrong, I think it's great. I just assumed that you wouldn't be the kind to disclose so soon in the piece, and you don't want the DA hearing from some water-cooler-gossipers pre-emptively." He doesn't intend the rough snort that makes it way through him; a strange sound that could not quite be classified as a laugh. It stops her monologue all the same.

"Liv, it's not, _we're_ not…" He runs a hand haggardly across his face and shakes his head, "I am not sleeping with Casiri, or anyone for that matter." He mutters that last part more to himself but still sees her eyebrow quirk at the disclosure. "How the heck did that rumour start anyway? If I was going to risk my reputation and jeopardise my objectivity for anyone in the Squad it sure as hell would not be for that kid." There's a heavy silence as he realises he's said too much and she flushes red with embarrassment. "Great. Now I have to go re-evaluate my tie collection." She lets out a short laugh and they grin from over the rims of their glasses as they cheers.

"So long as Carisi doesn't start sporting suspenders I think you'll be okay."


	6. Chapter 6

He's not sure how it started. At the beginning she was just another stepping stone, a piece on the playing board that would further his political agenda. But slowly, case by case, she become personal. She moved from Detective, to Olivia, to Liv. He let her track him down in bars, push him to try cases he knew he'd never win, get to know the man behind the mouth.

He didn't really notice. Their coffee meetings became more frequent, and soon enough it was just coffee for the sake of coffee. Their phone calls strayed from topic. He leant her books and she taught him how to shoot. Until one day he woke up and realised he was looking forward to seeing her.

It was a strange weight he carried in the pit of his stomach. An acknowledged truth that it was irrelevant if his mouth instinctively curled when she walked into his office, that it was of no consequence how his fingers itched to text her throughout the day, or the cold dread that washed over him when news spread about the shooting.

Because suddenly the idea of his morning caffeine buzz without brown eyes watching him was too much to bear; and it didn't matter if there was coffee spilled on his coat, or that his hair was wrecked from his hands going through it. She mattered to him, and it was a terrifying realisation that somehow snuck up when he was too busy to notice.

His breath was coming out in shallow puffs as he burst through the precinct doors, taking a moment to pull his shoulders tight and suck in a deep breath. The image in his head – blood smeared floors, shattered windows – was a far cry from the normalcy of the bullpen around him.

"Liv?" There was a straightness in his spine and a tinge of shrill in his voice as he chugged open her door. Her eyes pulled up in surprise from the documents on her desk, mouth moving to form a greeting. "I heard there was a shooting." The shake in his voice is not lost on either of them.

"Oh. A perp attacked one of the uni's, caused an accidental discharge in the squabble. Thankfully the only damage done was to the wall." He's nodding, trying to swallow the bubble of fear that had worked its way up his larynx, head bobbing and eyes unfocussed.

"Good. That's… That's good."

As she walks past him he puts a hesitant hand on her elbow, pulling her towards him briefly as he whispers a private "I'm glad no one was hurt" into her ear before depositing a soft kiss against her cheek.

He holds his breath and thinks the whole world pauses for one moment when she looks at him, and that strange weight in his stomach twists, the silent acknowledgement that _this_ matters to him.


	7. Chapter 7

He's adrift, alone. He comes home to a quiet apartment of books and scotch and very few photo frames. What has he to memorialise, to display? There's a photo of his _abeula_ and _mami,_ an old frame face-down with the smiles of three young boys, and one final image of a younger Rafi with graduation cap on and arm slung around his little sister. They are all he has ever had.

And he thinks about Alex, about the small number of people he would ever stick his neck out for and who would return the favour; he can count them on one hand.

His phone buzzes and as he glances to the screen he realises belatedly that they're not _really_ all he has, not anymore.

The bar is loud and warm and his earlier concerns for being underdressed are dismissed. Finn intercepts him en route to the table with a warm hand clapped on his shoulder and a scotch thrust into his. They try to steer clear of talking shop and no one calls him Counsellor once, and it feels _easy_ , like this could be where he belongs. Many refills later and the whole bar has lost all volume control, the music is throbbing and the squad is laughing as they scoot closer to be heard. He finds his arm thrown carelessly behind Liv, long fingers curling around the ends of her hair. Finn's recalling one of Munch's more spectacular conspiracy theories and he can feel the jumping of her ribs as she bellows with laughter. There are warning bells that would typically be going off in his head, extraction plans he would be implementing to leave the situation, but tonight he just smiles at the group and sips his scotch.

He is struck by just how much he likes these people. Amanda's thick accent and Carisi's constant need for reassurance, Finn's perceptive eyes sparkling with a smile; he realises with a start that he wouldn't trade them for anything. He knows there are gaps in the table, ghosts crowding around them – memories of Cragen and Munch and Amaro, all the detectives he never met and all the DA's that came before him – but he imagines they'd smile at the ragdoll team trying to catch a break. It's been a long time since he belonged anywhere but he's beginning to see that there's a spot in this team, in this family, that they have opened up to him. He can be theirs, if they can be his. And it's not about the favours they can call upon or the times they can argue against him, it's about having someone to call late at night when the case is too heavy to bear alone, about shouting coffees and knowing instinctively that someone has your back.

They're parting ways with bright smiles and carefree waves and promises of tomorrow. Liv looks at her watch before stepping closer to him, and he hates the little skip in his heartbeat, hates the instinct to close that distance. Her hand is on his chest and he's certain she can feel the heavy thud against his ribs as she bends her head and places a firm kiss on his cheek. He's frozen, mouth intuitively curling into a smile as he looks at her with a question in his eyes. "Happy birthday Rafael."

There's a soft laugh that breaks through the loaded air between them as he asks in a hushed tone, "How did you know?"

"I'm a trained detective."

He walks her home, shoulders bumping, secure in the knowledge that Amanda has her own two escorts to get her safely home. It shouldn't be the case, he knows, they're tough, but after the past year he's glad to know no one is alone on the streets tonight.

And when he gets back to his own apartment and falls into the couch with a small smile he thinks that maybe it's time he buys a new photo-frame.


	8. Chapter 8

"What's this _really_ about?" His hands are on his hips, back straight and legs spread in his typical DA stance. There's an edge in his voice that she doesn't recognize but the tilt of his chin speaks of lines crossed and promises broke. Her chin rises to match his as her eyes sharpen.

"What else would it be about, _Councillor_?" There's a pause before he responds, a beat where he considers backing off, but there's something in him that can't help but spit the name out.

"ADA Haden." The silence that follows is dangerous. It is unchartered waters and he can't tell if the barely restrained fire in his veins is professional or personal. He's mad that she'd keep this from him, this clear violation of impartiality, mad that she will now expect him to conceal this fact, but mostly he's mad at the images in his head and how they refuse to go away.

He sees them on the inside of his eyelids, they are far too vivid, far too real because he knows them both, knows every inch of their faces and every shade to their eyes. He likes Hadan, thinks him mostly a decent man. Years ago they had studied side by side at a local café, spent many nights quizzing each other and occasionally getting drunk to act as wing-men. But in this moment, considering him pressed against Olivia, he thinks David undeserving. He thinks of this kind intelligent man and feels an embarrassing primal need to be better, to be _more_. Rafael Barba is smart and there is some distant part of him that can recognize and categorize this emotion but he is too focused on the moment to care.

There's a part of her that wants to fight back, to simply walk out that door, yet she slips into character and discloses the relevant details. As she tells her story he feels the fight drain from him. He thinks about the Liv of 2012, the Detective who didn't yet have a son, who hadn't yet been tortured by Lewis, who he had yet to even meet. He wonders who she was. But he is grateful for this Liv, and with that in mind he feels his jealousy ebb away.

He doesn't apologise - they never really do - but he sits across from her and concedes to only bring it up if opposing council does. The bitter taste in his mouth disappears as her eyes soften; because it's 2015 and she has a son and she is sitting before him with a dangerously knowing smirk.

That night he thumbs his phone, considering texting the old friend. His absence in Rafael's life hadn't been particularly noteworthy but Barba imagines losing Olivia and feels almost bad for the other man. He wonders if David – who had always been such a straight shooter, who had unabashedly dreamt about growing old in the Hamptons on a cushy retirement fund with a happy family – ever regretted trading in the unsanctioned relationship for the promotion. He wonders if he himself would have done the same. The Rafael of 2012 he thinks would have in a heartbeat, but the man of 2015? He's not so sure.


	9. Chapter 9

There's something very wrong when Rafael is being called to baby-sit, but he knows it's a last ditch attempt before Liv just gives up and takes the kid to work so he clears his calendar and smiles awkwardly at the boy. "So, uh, what do you want to do, kiddo?"

He eyes up the child, taking in the jumper that is a little too small and the minute stain on the cuff of the boys pants before smiling encouragingly at the colourful socks. Decision made, he plants the kid on his hip and heads across to SOHO.

When Olivia rushes back into his office at the end of the day she finds her son and the ADA hidden behind a large pile of shopping bags and packing paper. Rafael has a sheepish smile but his eyes are beaming and Liv finds her face instantly lifting to match his expression, though she schools her features quickly to display a vague disapproval.

There are moments when she worries that bringing a child into this world, _her_ world – a world full of rape and murder and pain – was a mistake, that he will grow up somehow damaged by the darkness they find themselves in. But she watches Noah giggling as he plucks his new suspenders and she knows they are going to be just fine.

"Barba, this is way too much. I really can't accept all these." She's juggling her son and her case files as Rafael packs bag after bag into her boot with a dismissive quirk of the brow. She puffs out a small laugh as he pokes a tongue out at her sleepy son before catching himself and straightening up with a tiny lopsided grin. He's lifting her son from her hip and securely strapping him into the car as she stands watching, struck by just how _easy_ this is, before his hand finds her arm to gently point her towards the car.

It's two weeks later when she walks into the DA's office to find Rafael spread out pouring over the case, legs kicked up on the desk. That in itself is not unusual, but there's an orange peaking out from under the leg of his pants, and she knows those socks. She'd pulled the smaller version of them from the washing machine just this morning. He must catch her looking because he stretches just a little more to clearly display the purple dots and smirks openly at her.


	10. Chapter 10

"Going to a funeral, Councillor?"  
She meant it as a joke but as he turns to catch her gaze she can feel her stomach fall. His chin has instinctively jutted out, the way he does when he's preparing for a fight he didn't expect, and his hands have flown up to nervously check the buttons of his suit are fastened.  
"Actually, yes. An old… uh… a friend. Of sorts." He's dressed head to toe in solid black, no coloured suspenders or bright socks today.  
"Oh." She's stepping closer, her own hands going to nervously wring together, and his minute sway backwards is not lost on her. "Rafael, I'm so sorry. I…" His lips quirk for the briefest moment and he nods quickly, gaze darting to hers before returning to the floor.  
"Would you like to come with me?" There's something in the way he says it, all the syllables strung together as if the question is actually just a word, a burst of nervous energy and an innate need to please. She can pinpoint the moment he realises what he's said, eyes going wide in shock then frenzied panic. And she's not sure if she's trying to save him the embarrassment of taking back his words, or if the idea of this man standing alone beside a grave is too much, but she's accepting his offer before he has the chance to withdraw it.  
"I'd be honoured, Rafael."  
His eyes are still blown wide and his brows comically knitted together as he breathes in a scattered, "Sure."

The day is befitting of a funeral - the air is still around them, as if everyone has forgotten to draw a breath and the sky is a low and ominous grey, threatening to break upon them without notice. There's a crowd at the service yet Rafael hangs back, folding up upon himself as he avoids eye contact. The atmosphere is tinged with sadness but is less solemn than most services; a quiet kind of acceptance. Edwin's departure had not been unexpected, and at 93 years old, he had lived what appeared to be a very full life.

She feels him stiff beside her throughout the service, joining in the hymns quietly when appropriate, but otherwise trapped inside his own head with eyes locked upon the mans photo. There's a memory shared about the strays that Edwin would bring home, the homeless youth he would take in and feed, and Rafael draws in a sharp breath. She glances at his tight jaw and the stiffness to his gait, before returning her attention to the speeches. When her hand sneaks down to grasp his warmly his eyes flick to find hers, but she refuses to turn, scared of something she cannot name. The seconds tick by slowly and she's about to pull completely away when he threads his fingers through hers, interlocking with a gentle squeeze.

It's been a few hours and they should really be getting back to work but there's something on the tip of his tongue and she's trying to chase the demons from his eyes. They're sheltering from the rain in a quiet corner café, nursing their coffees and waiting for _something_. To her credit, she never asks, but he can feel the question rolling off her in waves, in the way she glances at him, the way her body is angled, after hijacking her day he owes her the answer.

"I was a small kid. Very small. An easy target, with my books and my stutter." He throws out a derogatory laugh and she leans closer. "Eddie protected me, he'd walk me to and from school, scare away the bullies. It became very clear to the other kids that if you messed with Rafi you were in trouble. But my Papi didn't like that, to him being a man was a very physical thing, it was about being able to protect what was yours. Ironically. He would get mad. And when he got mad he got violent. One night I ran out, spitting blood, my face swollen like I'd fallen into a beehive, and quite literally ran into this old man. Edwin took me home, patched me up. Now, as a DA, it's easy to say he should have called child services or _someone_ , but as a kid I was just so glad to have a person I could trust with my secret. He never asked and I never _told_ him, but he knew. He showed me where the spare key was, let me hide my college brochures in his house, he even sewed me up a couple of times. I got out and I barely gave Edwin another thought until I saw his obituary in the paper the other day."

The look in his eyes makes her heart ache. There's this fear she can see shining through, a doubt that he should have stilled his tongue, should have not shared this chapter of his life with her. So, knowing her words would fall on deaf ears, she reaches again for his hand.


	11. Chapter 11

It's just a touch; fleeting, rare. A warm hand briefly resting against an arm. A reminder that she's not alone. Because this job loves to beat them down and he will not let it win. It's not much, not nearly enough to be inappropriate or misconstrued. But it's something, his little way of saying he's in her corner.

She brings snacks to his office too often - a mandarin split between them or a packet of cookies from the downstairs Starbucks. She knows he hasn't eaten because he never has breakfast these days, just guzzles coffee and pretends it's a food-group. She shrugs the concern off as professional courtesy, some days admitting it to have breached beyond that.

There are mornings during particularly hard cases that she will walk into work to find him in her office, feet kicked onto her desk and head buried in a manila folder. His cup will be empty beside him as a hot one sits waiting to kick-start her day. There's a silent agreement to not mention the case until she's at drunk at least a third and there are days when it feels that he's checking on _her_ more so than the case, but she'd never dare clarify.

Noah had made Barba a card to say thank you for the birthday present; it was a messily scribbled drawing (which of course the child thought was a masterpiece) with Liv's neat hand-writing inside and Noah's early attempts at signing his own name. She's in Barba's office when her eyes catch on the folded paper on display amongst his certificates and books and her voice trails off. Both Barba and Amanda shoot her a concerned sideways glance before Rollins takes over the relay of information. Her head is miles away, in unknown territory, because the only personal touch in that whole damn office came from her son.

He tries not to dissect their phone conversations, tries to pretend he didn't notice when their "thank you, good bye" became "see you tomorrow", or the "make sure you get some sleep, okay?" that sometimes sneaks in. But he notices everything, even Langden's voice in the background one night. He tries not to dissect that too.

When Elliot comes back into the picture - just walking into the squad room one day with a giddy Maureen beside him, wedding invites in hand – Barba stands taller, moves closer, keeps his voice clipped and his eyes sharp. He's only heard snippets of the story, odd water-cooler talk here and there, but the look in Olivia's eyes is all the background he needs. So when she fails to find words he steps between them with an introduction and a slew of probing questions, feigning nonchalance, giving her the time to recover.

There's the rare evening out after a closed case, soaking up the loud music and the bright smiles, because they got the bad guy and that should be celebrated. The victory is always bitter sweet, though they pretend each win is not tinged with the pain that cannot be undone, that they can cheers their drinks and not think of the victims too late to save. She's always the first to leave, and he always lets her call a taxi, waiting for its arrival, before turning to walk himself home.

On the evenings that find him at her house - too kind to ask her to leave Noah for a meeting in his office – she sometimes finds herself watching him. He's still hesitate around the boy, scared of hurting him, but as he squats next to the toddler and mumbles Spanish explanations to him, she wonders if this could be their future. If one day the man with the suspenders would carelessly throw the boy with the funny socks over his shoulder and call him Son. Or if their future would be just this – moments between chaos.


	12. Chapter 12

She hung up the phone with another apology to Lucy, all hopes of getting home at a reasonable hour dashed as this case continued to unfold before them. A judge caught soliciting a minor – the stakes were high and she could sense the storm about to rage on them. Barba had just hurried into the squad room and she took a moment to eyeball him, discerning his dark jeans and the black shirt which gaped open at the top. No suspenders, no coloured tie, no vest; she wondered what exactly she'd interrupted tonight.

"Sorry to disturb your Friday evening, Councillor."

His eyes never strayed from the board as he muttered a reply. "Not at all. Political abuse of power trumps dating every day of the week."

Finn offered up a little rough laugh, handing out some mugs of coffee with a chuckling "Plus here, the caffeine is free." and catalogued the little double blink Liv did at Barba's response to decipher later.

It was past midnight before they packed it in for the night, everyone trailing out of the office wary of the continued horror awaiting their return. Barba sat strewn across her chair, peering at her across the desk. She glanced at her watch whilst shoving her things back into a bag. "I'm sorry to have ruined your date night."

A half smile greeted her as he replied, "I should be thanking you. Truthfully it was not going too well."

She tried to keep her voice as nonchalant as possible when she voiced an even "oh?" and avoided his eyes. Silence stretched between them for a few beats before he roughly coughed and with a lowered voice shared the thoughts that had been pestering him all evening.

"She wanted to know about the kind of cases I work here; in what way's it is different from Brooklyn PD. How do you bring that up over _Coquilles Saint-Jacques_ and a glass of _Chablis_?" It's a variation of the same question that seems to haunt these hallways. How do you go home to your family and not see the danger around every corner? How do you take a woman to bed and not see cold body parts? How do you have a drink and not worry excessively that it will blur that line of consent? How do you live a life outside of the job? She meets his eyes squarely and can see that he already knows her answer.

"I don't know."


	13. Chapter 13

She shouldn't be here, standing in front of his door like it was just any day. But she couldn't simply turn away. When he pulled open the door she could feel the full weight of the week settle upon her shoulders, her stomach clenched and her eyes instinctively darted away from his. He looked a mess, shoulders tight and eyes deep, the remnants of his ensemble dishevelled and hair gel ruined from running his hands through it one too many times. The moment stretched on as she finally met his eye, realizing the true depth to which she had disappointed him this week, noting the tension around his mouth as if he were biting back a perpetual scowl. And for the first time, she considered that he may not let her in.

But he stepped aside, walking deeper into the apartment without a word. She took that as her cue and followed the retreating back, watching as it collected the half drunk glass of scotch and collapsed back onto the couch. Hesitantly she settled beside him, perched forward on the edge of the couch as if to flee at the slightest hesitation. But she wouldn't, not tonight.

Her eyes darted between his profile and the smiling image of the young boy splashed across the newspapers on his table. "Look, I know you think I… let you down this week." His eyes darted to hers sharply and she could hear the words he held back with gritted teeth. "I won't apologise for it. Terrence's death is a tragedy, and it is something we will all have to carry with us. But until you've been there…" she went silent, drifting off to some memory he could not access before rasping out a rough "you don't know". The single thought that had been haunting him burst through his lips as her hands continued to absentmindedly twist together.

"Just _one_ second. If they had waited…"

"But they didn't know! They couldn't have. One second is the difference between watching a bullet take away your partner, or having a little boy bleed out. Or, yes, in this instance, killing an innocent man. But Barba, we all make choices, and sometimes we make mistakes, but we do the best we can. That's all we can do – our best."

They sat in silence as the shadows grew longer across the carpet, as the street-lights turned on and the noises of the city changed around them. Slowly she relaxed into the pillows and let her mind wander, secure in the knowledge that he hadn't totally counted her out yet.

He didn't apologise, and neither did she. Shades of grey; sometimes your moral high ground isn't concrete, that doesn't mean it isn't strong. But eventually he lets his shoulders drop and throws a "your boyfriend definitely doesn't like me now" her way. He's referring to Tucker and she can tell just from the twist of his lips that this is his olive branch, so she replies with a light irritated warning of "Raf" and smiles a sigh of relief as he rolls his eyes and smirks.

The silence continues, but their shoulders are now brushing, sharing each others weight. Her hands have stilled in their movement and his eyes are watching her. He wanders about those twelve cases, the two where she shot. He'd read about them, obviously, in the preparation for trial but there are things that cannot be told from a file.

She could stay there forever. It's a thought that is both comforting and terrifying. But she has a son to get home to and a nanny to relieve so she slowly lifts herself from the couch and plants a warm hand on his shoulder, making her exit. Half way to the door she hesitates, turning her head with a "til tomorrow?" that she wishes sounded more confident. His eyes swing to hers and though they are still sunken and pained they are no longer hard. His reply is more solid and it's that which keeps her going through the long night of paperwork and a fussy toddler. "Tomorrow.", he confirms.


	14. Chapter 14

He didn't like to linger, to intrude, but he had to see her before he could head back to work. He stood close to her side, eyes raking over her as the paramedic attended to her wounds. He'd wait, silent, sturdy, until her son was in her arms.

She knew better than to think him infallible, but the persistent shake of his hands was a surprising plot-twist. He hadn't said a word, hadn't asked if she was okay or told her she did good, he just stood there keeping watch.

He wanted to drive her home, pour her a merlot and watch her lock the door, but these scumbags needed to be processed and there was court appointed attorneys to argue with before his day was through.

She'd love to say she was surprised, that the tiny version of his form in her peep-hole was unexpected. But there was a tension in her chest that evaporated that would say otherwise. She had turned Tucker out, edging the door shut as he nodded and walked away, but she retched the door wide open for Barba.


	15. Chapter 15

It's not a word she thinks him often, soft. But tonight, with his weight gradually slumping against her - warm, quiet - she acknowledges it. She makes friends with the mass of the word on her tongue, the rounded corners of it. Savours the light quirk of his lips, the heavy lids of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his head. It's a far cry from the Raphael Barba she watches day in and out, the sharp bite of his tongue, the tense clench of his jaw. The warmth of cabernet is stretching its fingers across her abdomen and the muted city lights flickering beyond the window don't belong settled on their shoulders, but for tonight they accept the blanket.

When he chuckles the sound is deep in his throat and its timbre settles squarely on her sternum. She watches the bob of his adams apple as his head falls back across the couch. She's seen the many sides of this man, fought tooth and nail beside him, for him, against him. Fast-talking, straight-shooting, the Rafael Barba she met all those years ago was brassy and unassailable. Not that the Olivia Benson of those days was any better. She could never have envisioned, all those moons ago, that that smirk, that snarky quip would stand beside her through every case, every heartbreak, every hard night. That she would come to rely on his sharp chin movements, would learn to read his grip on a scotch glass. And yet.

It's in moments like these that she dwells on the cracks in professionalism they so blatantly rush past in the stress of their days - her hand too long on his arm, his shoulders too tight when danger swells, the early morning phone-calls and midday coffees and evening drinks. The topics of conversation never breeched and the barely restrained anger in his voice when they dare. In another world she likes to think that they could sort this out, that he could tuck Noah into bed at night with whispered Cuban fairytales and she could run her hand down the ADA's weary face as his eyes droop shut.

Instead she settles for his fingers barely brushing her forearm and indulges in the unchecked geniality in his gaze. Because Rafael Barba is not a soft man, but he softens for her.


End file.
